The Doctor, The Desert, and Death - One Shots
by M. Corrigible
Summary: A series of one-shots of additional info and alternate versions/could-have-been scenarios for my story: The Doctor, The Desert, and Death. It's not necessary, but likely helpful, for you to have read that before reading these. Notes are included in the chapters about placement in the larger story-line. :) If you have ideas for side-stories or one-offs, I might take requests. :)
1. Holmes Sitting

AN: This is a quasi-update to my story _The Doctor, The Desert, and Death (DDD)._ I don't think it's critical you've read that to read this. There aren't any Harry Potter references specifically in this chapter (unless you look REALLY CLOSELY and know what Mycroft knows, and even then it's a stretch). If you haven't read DDD, or if you were unable to make it past the first few chapters...check it out! Things are heating up!

What else...DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of it. Just playing around and having some fun with really great characters created (and expanded upon) by truly creative minds.

* * *

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade regarded the presence of the elder Holmes, sitting in his office chair, behind _his_ own desk, with the kind of practiced, long-suffering acceptance that came with the acquaintanceship of his younger brother.

He'd met Mycroft Holmes the first time when he'd put Sherlock in a holding cell for perverting the course of justice. The consulting detective had been younger, and God-only-knows-how, more arrogant then. He'd beaten Lestrade and his team to a crime scene. Lestrade hadn't thought Sherlock was their murderer, but the young man had been belligerent, looked like a junkie, and was definitely interfering with a police investigation.

By the time he'd returned to his office, Mr. Holmes, as Lestrade had come to address Sherlock's older brother – even in his mind – had been waiting for him. Their conversation had been brief, once Lestrade discovered he could not, in fact, eject Mr. Holmes from his office. The point was clear: Mr. Holmes was a powerful man, who worried about his brother, and was recruiting Lestrade to assist in watching over the young man. Coincidentally, it was suggested that this might include allowing Sherlock access, on occasion, to crime scenes and police files in exchange for Sherlock's compliance in maintaining his own sobriety.

"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade greeted, "To what do I owe the pleasure today?"

To his credit, he only sounded mildly irritated about the intrusion. And - make no mistake - he had every right to be annoyed.

He'd been trailing behind Sherlock, struggling to keep up throughout the grisly business of Moriarty's string of bombings. He'd had a front row seat to each new horrid clue. He and his team had kept up admirably, but they all knew how hopelessly out-classed they would have been without Sherlock's aid.

It was an uncomfortable sensation for Lestrade. He'd never felt quite so powerless against a criminal before.

Thankfully, he wasn't the type to accept his limitations. Realizing his position, he'd focused his team's efforts on facilitating whatever assistance he could manage for the mop-haired genius and preparing response teams for each conceivable outcome to be ready at a moment's notice.

"Gregory," Mycroft said his name expansively, generously. The sound of it made Lestrade's jaw tight. "My congratulations on your efforts responding to this Moriarty character's game with Sherlock."

"Sure. Ta." Lestrade responded. "Keeping up with that maniac is a bloody full time job."

"Yes, well. Admirable work." Mycroft continued.

"I meant your brother."

Mycroft smiled wanly. "I'm aware." He pushed a glass across the desk with his fingertips. Lestrade recognized the amber liquid. "I took the liberty of preparing you a drink," he said.

"Why not." Lestrade muttered, lifting the glass with the eager relief of a man overdue. "Help yourself."

Mycroft's polite smile could be interpreted as a grimace. "I'd prefer not."

Lestrade chuckled at the thought of Mr. Holmes drinking the low-grade liquor that passed for whiskey in his top right desk drawer. It wouldn't stop him from partaking. "Look, Holmes," he ventured after a sip, "It's late, I'm tired. I've had more than enough of genius' games today. Can we get to the point?"

"Certainly, Gregory." Mycroft sounded magnanimous, even in his acquiescence. "Late tonight, or more precisely, early tomorrow morning, by my calculation, Moriarty is going to meet with Sherlock personally."

"Bloody hell." Lestrade looked longingly at his half-full glass and decided against the second half, placing it with trembling fingers on the desk. "How'd you figure that?"

"My brother posted an invitation on his blog." Mycroft indicated the pertinent information on Lestrade's computer monitor as the DI made his way around to take a look.

"Christ, he's mad." Lestrade sounded more amazed than angry. That, more than anything, spoke of his long experience with the younger Holmes brother.

"Mm." Mycroft hummed his agreement.

After a moment Lestrade spoke again. "Right," he said. "I've work to do, then," he gestured to his currently occupied office chair.

"So it seems," Mycroft stood more gracefully than Lestrade would have assumed a man of his size might move, though he'd learned long ago not to underestimate a Holmes.

The DI moved quickly to take his seat, silver head already bowed over his keyboard as he called up the rosters to see who was on duty overnight.

"Oh, and Detective Inspector," Mycroft affected the tone of one just remembering some pertinent piece of information on his way out the door.

Lestrade was used to these doorknob moments with Mr. Holmes. This was when the British Government would tell him what was needed of him tonight.

"It may be beneficial to limit your surveillance to the exterior of the building, tonight," he said disinterestedly.

Lestrade's neck prickled. Something big was going on inside that building tonight.

"You sure your own men shouldn't be on this instead, then?" he asked.

Mycroft's polite smile was back, if a bit condescending. "My men are always 'on it,' as you say, when my brother is involved, Detective Inspector."

The DI nodded. "'Course, sir." Lestrade knew when he was out of his depth. "We'll be ready to move in, should need be."

"How accommodating," Mycroft noted. It was as close to thanking Lestrade as Holmes had ever come.

* * *

That's it! Just a quickie to help set the stage for Chapter 26, which should be out by Monday. Hope you liked it!

-M


	2. Gringotts - Ch 30 alternate story

_AN: This is **NOT **a part of The Doctor, The Desert, and Death, BUT it almost was. I was writing Chapter 30 and this came out, even though I didn't want to go this direction with John's return to the Wizarding World (Powerful!Goblin Allies are kind of a cliche...which I know my story has plenty of, but I just couldn't do ANOTHER), and I'm not entirely thrilled with the writing here...feels a bit lazy to me. Still, I kind of like it. So, I was tickled enough by it to want to share, but not to include it in the main story. Consider it a glimpse into what might have been._

_I hope you enjoy! (Let me know what you think)_

_Warmly,_

_-M_

* * *

Sherlock had tried to warn John as he noticed the armed guard being called to escort them to an account manager's office that something wasn't right. He'd observed no one else receiving said treatment. But, when he turned to share his misgivings with his friend, he observed the resigned but determined set of John's jaw; the firm and steady gait with which he walked; the military precision and measured pace of his step; the sure and forward focus of his gaze. John already knew something was wrong with this interaction. He was already prepared for whatever came next.

Faced with such evident confidence, Sherlock found it difficult to remain concerned as they continued their walk, escorted as they were, through a labyrinth of halls. Eventually they reached an imposing solid oak door on strong, brass hinges. One of their escort lifted the heavy knocker adorning the door – and looking strangely out of place to Sherlock – at goblin-height and knocked firmly three times.

After a moment the door swung open, weight groaning on the hinges. It was an intimidation tactic, of course, Sherlock noted. There would be no cause for a door such as this to sound on its hinges at all, unless the maker wanted it to. Clearly, it was designed to create unease in lesser-minded individuals.

Sherlock scoffed at the theatricality of it all, then spared a quick glance at John to reassure himself of his companion's continued resolve. He needn't have worried. The doctor was as steadfast as ever.

…..

As they stepped inside, it became very clear very quickly that this was not a standard account manager's office. The room was cavernous, and well appointed. The walls nearly dripped with fine adornments, and the floor – though bare – was no less decorated with carefully cut and laid marble and granite of varying hues depicting one the great goblin victory of the wizard-goblin war of 1042. Additional guards were posted within the doors, and spaced evenly throughout the room lining the walls under brightly burning golden sconces.

Here, John's outward resolve faltered – just for a moment – enough for Sherlock to notice. He'd known this was extraordinary treatment to open an account, but had been content to follow along at John's example until the doctor showed need for help. Sherlock lifted his chin imperiously, as though unaffected by the surrounding splendor, prepared to take action if John proved unable. It would be a true test of his skills of observation, mimicry, and manipulation. He suppressed the urge to twitch his fingers as the rush of the thought shot through his system just as they reached the oversized and ornately carved desk at the far end of the room.

A keen-eyed, sharp-toothed goblin in fine robes of velvet lined with silver fabric and embellished with gold brocade sat at the desk on a throne complete with stairs leading to the seat, which was covered in plush cushions and decorated with glittering gold and gemstones.

Sherlock couldn't help but thinking he'd finally found proof that a being more ostentatious about its wealth than his brother existed. He dismissed the amused smirk that threatened to break his cool façade at the thought of sharing that observation with John.

"Master Goblin," John's voice was confident, but deferential. He bent his knees as he bowed low, brow parallel to the floor, back of the neck exposed in supplication. Sherlock balked internally at seeing the flexible but ultimately uncompromising John Watson in such a position.

The room seemed to hold its breath as Sherlock continued to stand, tall and haughty, at John's side. John cleared his throat and glared at Sherlock, attempting to communicate his insistence that Sherlock adopt his posture as well.

With a put upon sigh and much show, Sherlock acquiesced, lowering himself slowly and gracefully into a similar pose.

John cleared his throat again and spoke strange and guttural words in a foreign language Sherlock had never heard before.

The 'Master Goblin,' as John had named him responded in kind, his tone indicating some amount of surprise at being addressed in his native tongue.

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock noted John's ears and neck coloring. It was a common response for John – but had it been triggered by anger or embarrassment, Sherlock wondered.

"I apologize," John replied. "My Gobbledegook is limited to formal greetings, I must continue our conversation in English."

"I have never expected much of wizards Doctor Watson, even less from thieves." The goblin had begun with a sneer and ended with a sharp-looking smile. "You may rise."

Sherlock rose gracefully as John awkwardly pushed off of the floor to regain his proper footing. His face was trying admirably not to show distress, but Sherlock recognized the tells: tension indicated by involuntary twitching – minor – of the facial muscles around the temples, jaw clenched in such a way his ears had migrated a fraction of a centimeter up towards his hairline, visible flexing of the sternocleidomastoid muscle in his neck, breathing shallow and quick, elevated heart rate – pulse visible through the carotid artery under his tightly drawn skin. John's autonomic nervous system responses were activated and ready to fight or take flight, though either seemed bad ideas in their current situation.

"It has been many years since I last heard an unfamiliar wizard speak my tongue," he continued, "No matter how meager the attempt."

"No disrespect was meant," John replied, his voice rough with adrenaline.

"And none was taken," The goblin laughed; harsh, but genuine.

Trust John to disarm even goblin elite with his polite and friendly nature. Sherlock could have rolled his eyes.

John chuckled in a self-effacing tone. "That's very generous of you, I'm sure I've done nothing to deserve such easy forgiveness."

"You have certainly done _enough_." The goblin emphasized the last word strangely.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean by that." John replied, falling into a position of parade rest.

The goblin smiled knowingly, baring all of his short, sharply pointed teeth. "You've been in hiding for some time, and you have changed greatly, but goblins have long memories, and our magic is different than that of wizards," he explained. "We remember our debtors and our debts, Mr. Potter, even should they change their faces."

Sherlock couldn't help but raise an impressed eyebrow. John recoiled visibly, sucking in a breath, involuntarily.

"You may have been a thief," the goblin continued, "But your break-in freed us from an unacceptable and unnecessary battle against the wizard known as Voldemort. Before your disappearance, your accounts were on good terms once more."

"I appreciate that," John said, tightly. "But I left that life behind. I am no longer Harry Potter, I'm John Watson now. I'm not interested in his old accounts, I'm here to start my own."

Now the goblin raised an eyebrow. "It's quite a sum to give up, Dr. Watson."

Sherlock regarded John with an assessing eye. He'd never noticed any signs that John had come from or had access to wealth at any point of his various lives. Inherited, then. Or inaccessible. Or both.

"It should have been passed on according to my will after I died," John pointed out.

"But you're still alive," the goblin replied. "As I said, our magic works differently than yours. We cannot release an account from a living customer."

John sighed heavily. "Then leave it where it is. It'll be accruing interest for some time to come."

The goblin grinned again. "Dr. Watson," he extended a hand to shake in the human fashion, "It is rare a wizard lives up to his legacy. I will remember our meeting."

John shook his hand and spoke something in that strange language. The goblin's smile lost some of its sharpness or gained some fondness.

"Brighthook," the goblin responded.

"Brighthook," John replied, "May your profits increase."

Brighthook nodded in return. "I will send you back to one of my account managers now, Dr. Watson. Word of your return will not spread from Gringotts, but beware; you still have enemies throughout the wizarding world." With no further explanation his long fingers gestured to the guards and Sherlock and John were ushered quickly back out the doors and through the long caverns, back to a smaller – much more typical – account manager's office to go about their business.


	3. Crime Scenes and Quidditch don't mix

_AN: Been away for a while, sorry for the incommunicado-ness. BUT here's an update! It's not a part of the main story, but it was a scene that appealed to me and I hope it will help kick-start my motivation again!_

_Premise is: John's been out playing Quidditch after meeting Lee Jordan in Diagon Alley when Sherlock calls him about a crime scene. Sherlock is annoyed when John arrives late, and Sally misreads the situation completely. _

_Warnings: Fluff and Sally being stupid._

_Feel free to comment/critique!_

_Thanks,_

_M_

The Freak was at it again. It was nearly unbearable, but Seargeant Sally Donovan was able to stomach it, just barely, because for the first time in a while he'd come alone. It nearly brought a smile to her lips, but just being around The Freak was so annoying – so _aggravating_ – that the best she could manage was a sneer. The only expressions she seemed to manage around him were like that, sneers and scowls. She'd feel bad about it if she wasn't so certain The Freak couldn't care less one way or the other.

Watson, though, he was an okay bloke. He wasn't really the sharpest tool in the shed, mind, but he wasn't so bad. She'd never really understood what he was doing hanging around with a character like The Freak. She didn't know much about him, really. He'd come to that case with the suicide bomber and been left behind like an abandoned pet, alone and forgotten in the countryside.

She'd tried to warn him off. What decent human being wouldn't? She knew the kind of pain he was in for. It didn't take The Freak's skills to read the disappointment and confusion on the poor man's face at being left behind. He'd soon learn, as she had, that trying to help The Freak was a waste of energy.

And who abandoned an injured mate, anyway? The doctor had obviously been injured, hobbling around on that cane. Must not have been too bad, though. She hadn't seen it on him since.

She'd been surprised when Watson had shown up again the next time Lestrade invited The Freak to a work a case. And again after that. Soon after she'd given up trying to understand why an otherwise normal man would want to associate with _him._

So today, when The Freak had shown up to a crime scene wholly unaccompanied and clearly perturbed, Sally had crowed with joy.

"Not working out with you and the missus, then?" She asked

Of course he ignored her.

"Lost your shadow, did ya?" She prodded, not to be put off.

"Perhaps if you demonstrated the same interest in solving crimes as you do in my personal life, you wouldn't need to rely on my skills so often." The Freak snapped back.

"Hmm. Maybe I'd rather have you here where I can see you than off committing your own crimes to get your fix, Freak."

He stood, shoulders tense and Sally just knew whatever he had for her was going to be a good one. She readied herself, waiting for the opportunity to goad him over the line. To force him to expose himself for The Freak He Was. Watson had left, and taken whatever humanity The Freak may have had with him. The time had come to end this charade.

He turned to face her, his face a rictus of rage. Sally normally thought of The Freak's face fixed like that, a set of masks with little variation. There was contempt, disdain, on a rare occasion – like today – anger, and more disturbingly: excitement, pleasure. She had never wanted to imagine what his face might look like during climax, and she would never need to. She'd seen him the moment he'd figured it all out before. Disgusting.

Now, though, his expression was changing. And this close she had the perfect vantage point to see it happen. He went from furious, self-righteous rage to something softer. The skin around his eyes relaxed, and the tension left his nose and cheeks. Recognition, then. It shifted quickly again, the space between and above his eyebrows crinkling in on itself. Was that confusion? On The Freak? That quickly morphed into a stormy look she was more familiar with, something akin to a scowl. This close, though, she could read the hurt writ in his eyes. He exhaled noisily.

"Ah, John," he spoke over her, as though she wasn't even there. "There you are." No _where have you been_ or _you're late_. She could hear them left unspoken, though.

Watson, when she turned to look at him, looked slightly chagrinned. His hair was ruffled, cheeks red, clothes rumpled.

Sally smirked. "So there _is_ trouble in paradise," she remarked, never having though her suspicions of their more intimate association would be revealed in such an entertaining confrontation. And she'd never imagined Watson could be so cruel – to show up looking so much like he'd just had a leg over – knowing Sherlock could read the entirety of his infidelity at a glance.

She crossed her arms and took a step back to watch. This should be good.

"Sorry, Sherlock," Watson scratched the back of his neck and flushed a bit.

Is that from shame, or residual from arousal, Sally wondered.

"The boys and I ran a little over," he offered.

"So I see." The Freak's tone would have made Sally shiver, if she hadn't been enjoying the show so much.

To her great surprise, The Freak then turned back to the crime scene. There were no hysterics, no accusations, no embarrassing revelations he'd read off of Watson's appearance.

Well, she wouldn't let herself be disappointed. "Next time you want to get something on the side, maybe clean yourself up better if you're going to be around a group of detectives."

Watson's mouth flapped open and his face twisted in indignation. "Something on the side?" The words were half-hissed rather than spoken. There was an almost serpentine quality to his speech, and Sally took an instinctive step back.

That made her angry. Who did this dumpy little doctor think he was, trying to intimidate her?

"Yeah," She shot back with vehemence. "It's written all over you, and the way The Freak reacted when he saw you. Jealousy, disappointment if I ever saw it."

John's indignation now morphed into some kind of confusion. Either the doctor was a great actor, or he really was too dim to understand he'd been caught out.

"But, it's not _like_ that!" he protested. "I was playing a pick-up game with some old schoolmates I ran into the other day!"

The Freak's back was tense, on the verge of convulsing. Sally smelled blood – this could be it, the day she could embarrass him the way he was always embarrassing her. She went in for the kill.

"Go on, Watson," she sneered, "Pull the other."

And then he snapped. The Freak started shaking, but the sound wasn't the sobbing she'd expected. He was laughing, braced with one hand against the ground to keep from tipping over.

"Donovan, you've really outdone yourself - even when your suspect confesses the truth to you, you're too dense to hear it! Perhaps it's no surprise, your own disreputable assignations are catching up with you."

Had she misread the situation? But the betrayal that had crossed The Freak's face, that was real. Wasn't it?

"Now, John," The Freak continued, "Could herniation like this be caused by strangulation?" He indicated the body.

Watson, still confused, but looking more confident by the moment pulled on his exam gloves and moved closer to the body. Before long The Freak and his sidekick had fallen back into old patterns. After a brief tete-a-tete they stood and headed straight for Lestrade.

Fuming, again, Sally couldn't restrain herself. "Maybe it wasn't an _assignation_," She tried for an air of nonchalance, but her voice sounded petty and spiteful, even to her own ears. "But I know a look of betrayal when I see one. You really must be a pathetic Freak to be hurt like that over a mate having other friends."

She almost missed the clenching of Watson's fist as he stopped and stiffened mid-stride. She couldn't have missed the restraining hand The Freak placed on his shoulder, nor the shake of his head that followed. Watson released his tension with a heavy exhale and a quick, military nod.

"You're right," the doctor was addressing The Freak, but he spoke loud enough for Sally to hear. "She's not worth it. But she is wrong, just so you know." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I'm sorry I was late today, Sherlock. I have had some great friends, and been lucky enough to reconnect with some I never thought I'd see again," he paused again and swallowed, preventing The Freak's interruption with a meaningful look, "but if you haven't yet deduced it, you're the best mate I have, and you should know that." His voice had gotten rough by the end of his little confession, and his eyes were getting a little watery. The doctor blinked once, and attempted a smile that looked slightly constipated.

Sally was nearly as shocked as she was horrified. How could anyone say anything so heartfelt to The Freak? She wished she could see _his_ face, but The Freak's back was turned to her.

The Freak made a hemming sound in the back of his throat, that made Watson frown slightly, before saying, "You know what I think about sentimentality." The Freak's voice was softer than Sally was used to hearing, but unwavering. "Now, come _on_, John, the _case!"_

Watson chuckled and Sally found herself shaking her head at the both of them. She didn't doubt Watson's words. That two such hopeless men could somehow find one another was beyond her fathoming. That she had to deal with them was even more incredible to her. What had she ever done to deserve this treatment?

With a gusty sigh she turned back to the job at hand. "Anderson," she called, "The Freak and his pet are heading out, come gather your samples."

She tucked her hands into her coat pockets as the forensics specialist mumbled about contaminated crime scenes and Sick Freaks.

"You catch that show?" she asked.

Anderson snorted. "Pathetic, the both of them."

"Yeah." She agreed.

He worked a moment in silence, and she appreciated his adherence to the approved methods, the precision and decorum she expected from colleagues at a crime scene instead of The Freak's unorthodox and often disturbing techniques. She suppressed a shudder at the memory of The Freak stooping to scrape film off of a dead woman's tongue and _tasting_ it before. That was a practice the doctor had put a stop to, at least. No more eating evidence.

"Wife's out of town," Anderson stated, almost conversationally, as he packed away his evidence kit. "What are you doing after we get this filed away tonight?"

Sally smiled. Some time to unwind and gossip about The Freak and his pet were just what she needed. "Chinese take-away?" She proposed.

"Sounds perfect." His responding grin was positively lascivious.


	4. Vigilance

_AN: This is the additional content added to The Doctor, Desert and Death Chapter 36 today (16 April 2016). __Very short - just a little nugget I liked the thought of. New content underway, hopefully up soon if RL will cooperate._

_This is after John, Sherlock, Hermione and Ron have met up to talk about the threat of Moriarty in the Wizarding World, and during the events of Scandal in Belgravia. Hopefully we're all familiar with the episode - so the references they're making to the American Muggle Spooks are referring to the boys' encounter at Irene Adler's house, but before the incident with Mrs. Hudson._

_-M_

* * *

"Look mate," John spoke lowly, his warm hand holding Ron's shoulder steady in the dark at the threshold to his building. "Keep an extra eye out, yeah?"

Ron's eyes darted around the empty street. "Worried about surveillance?"

John nodded and glanced in Sherlock's direction. He stood at the bottom of the steps from the building's entrance to the street, collar up, hands in coat pockets, rocking on his heels.

"Those killers we ran into at Adler's place," John explained, "Were well trained. Sherlock suspects a Langley connection."

"Like those American muggle spooks?" Ron's eyebrows disappeared into ginger fringe.

"Just keep an extra eye out. If they're following us, I don't want to drag you into all this."

Ron clapped his friend on his back. "It was good seeing you, _John_," he said. The name still felt awkward in his mouth, but it was getting easier every time.

"Come on, John!" Sherlock beckoned.

John shook his head as he pulled away from Ron's quick embrace. "See you soon, Ron," he grinned and trotted down the steps to join the detective.

Sherlock began walking the moment John's stride caught up with him.

"Door steps are an awful place for a sensitive conversation," Sherlock scolded.

John bobbed his head in agreement. "Needed saying, though."

Sherlock sighed. "With proper vigilance, the warning is redundant and the risk is increased by such conversations, rather than diminished," his tone equal measures petulance and pedagogy.

John snorted.

Sherlock turned his head, eyebrow quirked in inquiry.

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" John shouted without warning, grinning broadly as Sherlock flinched away in surprise.

John laughed harder, hearing a familiar guffaw from Ron as they walked away.

….


End file.
